‘And wipe that smirk off your face.’
‘Sir.’
‘No one in,’ said the DCI who was not a patient man.
‘They’re in,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘They’re waiting for us to go round the back.’
‘What?’
‘Tradesmen and deliveries.’ Troy’s lip curled as it always did when reckoning the bourgeoisie. ‘Yes, sir, no, sir. Three bags full.’
‘Rubbish. It’s just the local vicar as was. Lionel Lawrence.’
‘You know him then?’
‘I know a bit about him. He married the chief constable twenty-odd years ago.’
‘Blimey,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘They kept that quiet down the Masons’ lodge.’ He raised his arm to give a good bang on the knocker but Barnaby stayed his hand.
‘Someone’s coming.’
Ann Lawrence opened the door. Barnaby took in a faded blue dress and grey hair so clumsily pinned up it was falling down. Her skin was almost translucent and the eyes so pale it was impossible to guess at their colour. The chief inspector thought he had never seen anyone so washed out. He wondered if she was ill. Perhaps seriously anaemic.
‘Mrs Lawrence?’
‘Yes.’ There was an air about her as of someone awaiting a blow. She seemed almost to be holding her breath. Her glance moved anxiously between the two men. ‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby. Causton CID. And this is Sergeant Troy.’ As Barnaby held up his warrant card, Ann Lawrence made an involuntary little sound then covered her mouth with her hand. Such colour as there was drained from her face.
‘Might we have a word with you? And your husband, if he’s here.’
‘What about? What do you want?’ She made an obvious effort to collect herself, realising perhaps how strange her behaviour might appear. ‘I’m so sorry. Come in, please.’ She stood back, swinging the heavy door wide. ‘Lionel’s in his study. I’ll take you.’
The way led through a black and white tiled hall. A great star lantern hung down over the stairwell on a heavy looped chain. A copper jug, crammed with beech leaves and achillea and dried tansies, stood on an oval table next to a little stack of outgoing mail.
The study was a quiet, peaceful room overlooking the back of the house. Curtains of faded amber silk, so old as to be almost threadbare. Bowls of hyacinths, books and newspapers. A fire crackled with the sweet smell of applewood.
Lionel Lawrence got up eagerly when they were announced, hurrying round from behind his desk to shake Barnaby’s hand.
‘My dear Chief Inspector! We’ve met before, I think.’
‘Once or twice, sir,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘At the magistrate’s court, I believe.’
‘Have you come about Carlotta?’
‘Carlotta?’
‘A young friend in our care. There was a disagreement - an argument with my wife - and she ran away. We’re both extremely worried.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Barnaby wondered if this explained Mrs Lawrence’s distraught behaviour on their arrival. It seemed a bit over the top. Most young people, even from stable backgrounds, were inclined to absent themselves occasionally. Smuggled into a friend’s house overnight maybe, after a row at home. A comfortable doss while their frantic parents rang every number in the book or walked the streets, calling and searching. He noticed she had now become much calmer.
‘Please, do sit down.’
Ann Lawrence indicated an olive-green Knole settee then sat down herself, facing them. Caught in a shaft of sunlight, Barnaby saw that her hair was not grey, as he had first thought, but a delicate ash-blonde. She wore a poorly cut green tweed skirt and hand-knitted jumper. He noticed with a frisson of pleasurable surprise that she had absolutely lovely legs, albeit encased in tobacco-brown woollen tights. Now that the nervy tension had vanished, her skin looked smooth and relatively unlined. She could still be in her thirties.
‘I expect you’re already aware that Charlie Leathers has been found dead.’
‘Yes.’ Ann Lawrence shuddered. ‘It’s dreadful.’
‘Have you been to see Hetty?’ asked Lionel.
‘Of course I have.’ Ann spoke sharply. ‘Her daughter is there at the moment. They’ll let me know if I’m needed.’
‘Whoever did this must be found,’ said Lionel. This instruction was sternly directed at Barnaby. ‘Such a person is in desperate need of help.’
Sergeant Troy stared, open-mouthed, at the tall, elderly man with shoulder-length, flowing pepper-and-salt hair who had now started pacing up and down. Bony ankles protruded from rumpled Harris tweeds and disappeared into elastic-sided boots. His long, corncrake legs bent and stretched in a scissor-like movement. His hands, locked together in anguished indecision, twisted and turned.